


To Protect and Serve

by AgentNerd



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Hogan is a Good Bro, Happy Hogan takes care of the people in his life, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sick Peter Parker, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-15 05:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentNerd/pseuds/AgentNerd
Summary: Happy Hogan looks after the people in his life.  It's all he knows how to do.--A character study of Happy and his relationship with Peter in a Post-Endgame world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! This fic is directly inspired by Happy and Peter's scenes together in FFH, though it ignores the movie's existence entirely. I thought their scenes together (especially The One) were so emotional and touching, and it really put their relationship into a new and wonderful light. If you've read my Forgiveness series, you'll know I love Happy, so I was thrilled to write this.
> 
> I'm also using this as an opportunity to flesh out Happy's background with some headcanons of my own. Hopefully it comes across well. I've written a rough outline for this fic, but I'm not exactly sure how many chapters it'll be. It might end up being a 5+1, but in any case it'll be wrapped up in six chapters or less, each being standalone.
> 
> (Also if anyone cares, Jamais Vu is still being rewritten and is going strong. I promise I haven't forgotten about it.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It's been over forty years, but Happy still remembers with exact detail the day his dad left.

He had been six. He was only called Harold, then. His parents had been screaming at each other all day, but that wasn’t so unusual—he couldn’t remember a time when they _weren’t_ yelling at each other. His mom was drunk—he couldn’t remember a time when she was sober, either.

This time, the argument was about bills. 

“If you’d stop wasting my paycheck on booze, maybe we’d be able to keep the fucking electricity on!”

Harold was sitting at the top of the stairs. He was supposed to be sleeping, but he was scared of the dark. His night light didn’t work. None of the lights did. From his place in the stairwell, the faintest orange light filtered through to him from the few candles lit in the living room below. He wanted to get closer to them, but he didn’t dare. Not when his parents were like this.

“You don’t _understand_ what I go through—”

“What you go through? You sit on your ass every goddamn day and do _nothing_! _I’m _the one that works. _I’m _the one does the grocery shopping, fixes the car when it breaks time for the tenth time this year—”

“I bring the kid to school every day!”

“Only because it’s easier to leave him with a bunch of glorified babysitters for eight hours a day than take care of him yourself!”

“It’s _hard—”_

“_I’m tired of your excuses! _You know what? Fuck it. Fuck all of it. You’ll never change. I’m done.”

Loud, angry footsteps. His mother sputtering indignantly. His father appearing at the bottom of the stairs, facing the front door, and suddenly, Harold knew exactly what was going to happen. He scrambled down so quickly he nearly tripped over the steps, “Don’t go!”

He launched himself at his father’s pant leg and held on, feeling the man freeze immediately at his touch. 

“You should be asleep,” his father said in a stern voice.

“Please, please don’t leave!” Harold had always been sensitive, and it didn’t take much for tears to start flowing.

“Harold. Get off.”

“No!” he screamed as rough hands grabbed him from behind, and he could smell the sour alcohol that clung to his mother like a cloud as she pulled him to her chest. Her grip was too tight on his arms.

“We don’t need you!” she yelled at him, spittle flying from her mouth. Harold struggled against her, but he was small, and she was angry. He sobbed as his father opened the door and shot one last spiteful glare at his mother.

“Maybe now you’ll learn some responsibility.”

Then the door shut, and he was gone.

Harold never saw his father again.

* * *

The aftermath is difficult for everyone. So much land was destroyed, so many lives were lost, and at the same time, in a sick twist of irony, the world also has to cope with regaining half of its population all at once. Everyone is doing the best they can to cope. It isn’t enough, and it will never be enough, but it’s all they can do.

Happy Hogan is a private man. He’s not the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve unless those emotions involve sarcasm or impatience, and he _certainly_ never cries. He suppressed that instinct a long time ago.

This strange new world, however, doesn’t care about his integrity. It robbed him of his closest friend. So, Happy abandons all of his self-control and spends one evening sobbing like a child under the covers of his bed, grieving the most important member of the only family he’s ever known.

Then he gets back to work.

He organizes security for all the dozens of post-blip charity events Pepper is attending. He babysits Morgan, makes her cheeseburgers and tells her every single story of her dad that he can think of even though it physically pains him because she _deserves _to know. It’s not the same as it was before, but being there for them helps fill the ragged hole that has been ripped into his heart, even if it is just ever so slightly.

And when it fully dawns on him that Tony isn’t around to look after Peter anymore, Happy takes full responsibility of that too.

He works with FRIDAY to link Peter’s suit and AI to his phone. He’ll get automatic notifications whenever the kid goes out to save cats from trees, or help little old ladies across the street, or whatever good deed he has in store for the day.

Except Peter doesn’t do any of that.

He hasn’t so much as touched the suit since the battle. Honestly, Happy doesn’t blame him. It would be hard enough to go back to superheroing after a fight like that with—well, with everything that happened. On top of that, though, he also has to get used to the world being five years ahead of him. Yeah, he’s a strong kid, but Happy would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried.

So, in what could be seen as a strange case of role-reversal, he starts texting Peter. Every evening, without fail, he checks in with a short, innocuous message.

_“How you holding up?”_

_“How was school today?”_

_“How are things?”_

Perhaps a little awkward, but he was never good with texting, and he doesn’t want to push too hard. Surprisingly, though, maybe out of some misplaced sense of obligation, Peter responds to each one. Usually with the same thing, or variations thereof:

“_Fine.”_

Happy knows he’s not fine. No one would be after what he went through. But it’s a response, and that’s enough. It means he’s functioning, and right now, Happy figures that’s the best he can do. He can’t bond with the kid over science or engineering or any of the stuff that Tony used to use to bond with him, and he feels like it would be making a mockery of the man’s memory if he tried. But he can look out for him, and he can keep sending texts.

He helps Pepper plan for Morgan’s sixth birthday party after she has a spontaneous breakdown over the bouncy castle catalog. He has to swallow down a lump in his throat when as he quickly flips past the Avengers-themed pages.

“_How was your day?_”

“_Fine._”

He takes Morgan to art class while Pepper is tied up in meetings. He spends the entire time she’s in there planning Pepper’s transportation for another memorial dedication ceremony that weekend. Morgan comes out of the class covered in paint and glitter, and with a pang in his chest he realizes that it reminds him of the oil and grease that would cover Tony after a day in his workshop. She looks so much like him.

“_How are you doing?_”

“_Fine._”

It’s been six months exactly since Tony died. Happy struggles to get out of bed that morning. He knows Pepper and Morgan plan to have a quiet day at home, and he sends a text to let them know that he’s available if they need anything—otherwise, he gives them space. For their sake and his own. There’s a raw feeling of vulnerability creeping down from his brain and spreading throughout his entire body, like he could break down at any second if something hits him the wrong way. He refuses to be in that state in front of anyone else, and especially not in front of a grieving widow and daughter. Pepper sends back her appreciation with a motherly request to make sure he looks after himself as well. Even through her grief, he knows she worries about him. But he’ll push through it. He’ll be fine.

For once, Peter is not.

* * *

He sends his text at the usual time that evening, after spending the day in his apartment with the blinds drawn and his favorite music playing. He’s on the couch, still nursing the singular glass of whiskey he poured that morning (allowing himself the taste of alcohol while still staying sober in case he’s needed): “_You okay, kid?”_

He waits for a response. One minute passes, then five, then ten. The kid usually responds within the half-hour, but this time, he doesn’t. An hour passes. Realistically, it’s not _that _long, but he struggles not to overreact out of a sense of worry. His train of thought is arrested when he suddenly gets a notification from FRIDAY.

Peter has put on the suit for the first time in six months.

He’s standing at the edge of a bridge.

Happy doesn’t want to jump to any bad conclusions, but a surge of panic spikes through him. He sends the kid another text, fingers stumbling over the keypad with a slight twinge of desperation.

“_You alright?_”

One minute. Two.

_“Answer me, Peter.”_

Three. Four. Five.

His GPS signal hasn’t moved. Happy tries calling next, but to no avail. He tries patching himself directly through to Karen, but the kid has somehow found a way to block it.

He doesn’t remember heading down to his car, but suddenly, he’s there. Another blink, and he’s parked at the end of the bridge. He has to travel the rest of the way by foot, but it’s late enough that traffic is almost nonexistent, so he’s not worried about keeping his eyes glued to the GPS ping on his phone as he tracks the kid down. He reaches the midway point of the bridge and finally spots Peter sitting wedged up against a stanchion, legs dangling over the edge as he looks out over the water below. He hasn’t seen Happy, but he has super senses, so Happy has no doubt he’s heard his approach.

“Peter?” he says, taking a few careful steps closer, and when the kid doesn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgement, he continues moving toward him.

“Can I—can I sit?” he asks when he reaches Peter’s side, stomach turning slightly as he catches a quick glance at how high up they are. Heights are not really his forte.

“Knock yourself out,” the kid talks to him, finally. His mask is still on, so Happy can’t read his expression, but his voice has just the barest hint of rawness to it, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess that he’s been crying recently. Happy’s knees creak audibly as he lowers himself down next to Peter. His priority had been reaching the kid; now that he’s here, he isn’t sure what to do. What to say. 

“I’m not gonna jump.”

Peter solves that problem for him.

“I know,” Happy says, but until this very second, he _didn’t _know that. Now, when that answer leaves his mouth, he’s surprised find himself believing it. The kid’s body is relaxed, almost languid against the stanchion as he looks outward over the river. He’s not tense or nervous or any of the other signs that would indicate he was thinking of doing something drastic. And okay, maybe that’s not the best way to gauge a situation like this, but Happy trusts his gut. He’s also not sure entirely why, but some part of him knows the kid wouldn’t lie about something serious like that. He continues, “But you didn’t answer my texts or calls—you almost gave me a heart attack, kid.”

“Yeah, I’m good at that,” Peter snaps, then seems to regret it immediately, “I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s okay,” Happy cuts him off. “I think you get a pass today, considering.”

They both stiffen for a moment. It’s the closest they’ve come to acknowledging why they’re there out loud. 

“I needed to get away,” Peter admits, taking the plunge with a shaky breath. “May was just hovering so much, and it’s the only thing on TV, trending on social media…”

Happy can sympathize. He’d gotten rid of his TV shortly after the battle for that exact reason, and he’d never touch Tweeter or Facespace or whatever kids were surfing these days a ten-foot pole. Of course, he doesn’t have anyone to hover over him, but so much the better. At least, that’s what he’s convinced himself, but maybe if he did, he’d know how to better handle this situation. He feels completely out of his depth. “Sorry I disturbed the peace.”

“No, I—it’s okay. I know you won’t fuss. I mean, you did a little bit, like with all the texts and stuff, but that’s understandable, I was being kind of dumb…”

Peter sighs.

“I, uh, almost drowned in this river once,” he continues, switching tracks suddenly. He points to a spot in the distance, “Just over there. I was being dumb again. Tried to track down the Vulture and ended up kind of crashing into it. I don’t know if you knew about that.”

Happy frowns, shakes his head. “I didn’t.” A familiar resurgence of guilt takes hold over him. He regrets ignoring the kid during that time. He’d been a real ass, and he’s been trying to make up for it ever since.

“Mr.—he saved me. He was alerted somehow, pulled me out of the water. It was kind of embarrassing, but I was kind of excited too because it was the first time I’d really talked to him since Germany, and I was on to something, and I just felt important, you know? Like—like I had a purpose.”

Even now, the kid’s voice is as earnest as ever. Happy knows firsthand how even the smallest amount of positive attention from Tony Stark could make you feel like you meant something. He was larger than life: no one could really match that largeness, but being around him made you stand a little taller to try and meet it.

“Except then he started yelling at me. Telling me how I messed up. And that was bad enough, but then the suit’s faceplate opened and it was just empty inside. He was at a party somewhere or something. Couldn’t even bother to yell at me in person. And I remember I was so _mad _he wasn’t actually there, but now—now, I’d give anything…”

Peter’s voice shudders and he sucks in a sharp breath, clearly on the verge of tears again. Acting entirely on an instinct Happy didn’t even realize he had, he wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him into his side right as the boy starts sobbing. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “Trust me, kid, I know.”

“I miss him.”

“I do too.”

He lets Peter cry it out, knowing that it’s what the kid really needs. Tears leak through the mask and onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t want to imagine how gross it must be under there—at least it’s machine washable. When Peter’s breathing starts to get back under control, Happy allows him to pull away, and he says,

“He’d be proud of you. He always was.”

Because he’d known Tony for over two decades, and he knows it’s the truth.

“But I haven’t been doing _anything_,” Peter says, the venom in his voice clearly directed inwards, “So many people have needed help, but this is my first time back in the suit and I—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Happy cuts him off. “The suit hasn’t been around for five years, and the world has gotten along just fine.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Peter physically shrinks inward, and Happy mentally kicks himself for his poor phrasing. “I just meant that you’re allowed to take a break. Get used to things again. But kid, it doesn’t matter that you haven’t been out in the suit. Tony didn’t care about you because you were Spider-Man. He cared about you because you were smart, and kind, and good. That’s not a suit or superpowers—that’s _you_.”

“I—” Peter’s breath hitches, and for a second Happy is afraid he’s going to start crying again. But he doesn’t. “Thanks. That—that means a lot.”

A strong gust of wind blows in their direction, and Happy shivers. A quick glance to his watch reveals that it’s nearly midnight. He starts to stand, mentally cursing his body for becoming old. “Now come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

He extends a hand in offering. Peter just looks up at him through lens-capped eyes and shakes his head. “I can get home just fine—”

“Not this late at night, and not after you’ve destroyed your mask with snot. You’re bound to swing into a wall before you get there.”

_And I want to keep an eye on you_.

Peter huffs in indignation, but he accepts Happy’s help up. “Fine.”

“And that’s another thing,” he says as they start heading to the car. “You’re a smart kid, I know they make you read some big books at that genius school of yours. How about responding to my texts with more than one word every once in a while, huh?”

Peter crawls into the backseat of Happy’s car, seeking protection from the tinted back windows despite almost no one being on the streets this time of night. Happy tries to keep the tone light, but halfway through their fifteen-minute drive, he notices that Peter has gone quiet, and a quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals that he’s fallen asleep. He gently nudges the kid awake when they’re parked out front of the apartment building, and Peter jerks with a start. Clearly exhausted, he mumbles out one last thanks to Happy before climbing out of the car, slipping around to the side of the building, and beginning the upwards crawl to his bedroom window. Happy waits until he’s inside before driving away.

He goes to bed that night feeling a little less hollow than when he woke up.

The next evening, Happy sends his usual text:

_“How are you, kid?_”

The response comes within a minute.

_“Better._”

Happy can’t help but smile. Still one word, but they’ll work on that. Small steps. It’s the best they can do, and for now, that’s enough


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets sick. Happy has a protocol for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your warm response to the first chapter! I love these two, and I'm thrilled to write more. I'll admit, this chapter got away from me a little bit. Not sure if the others will be anywhere near this long.
> 
> A couple of things:
> 
> 1\. I am not a doctor, all of my medical research comes from the internet. Please give me some leeway.
> 
> 2\. I love Doctor Strange as a character, but I've only seen the first ten minutes of his standalone movie. Otherwise, my characterization of him comes from the ensemble movies. Please excuse any mistakes there, but I hope I did him justice.
> 
> 3\. Magic is handwavey device to get my good, good tropes in. Expect less accuracy than the medical stuff.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy! I love feedback if you have a moment!

Harold was twelve years old when he learned that alcoholism was a disease. They were doing a unit on addiction in health class, and the teacher was doing his best to scare them off of alcohol for life by reading a long list of negative effects from a poorly-copied transparency on the overhead projector. 

Tommy Weisbart, grade-A asshole, raised his hand. “What’s that last one?”

The teacher paused, looking surprised that someone was actually engaged. “Oh, fetal alcohol syndrome? Well, when a woman drinks alcohol while pregnant, her baby might be born with physical and intellectual delays and disabilities. The effects exist on a spectrum of severity, but doctors have found that there is _no _safe amount of alcohol to drink during pregnancy. So remember—”

The bell rang at that exact moment, cutting off his lecture. Harold grabbed his books and headed for the door, but Tommy caught up to him just as he entered the hallway.

“At least now we know why you’re so stupid—”

In one swift movement, Harold dropped his books and socked him in the jaw.

It was a dumb thing to do. Tommy had a good six inches on him, and his equally large friends weren’t far behind. In the pummeling that ensued, Harold tried to give as good as he got, but three on one was never going to be fair.

Eventually, some teachers came to break it up, but not before he got a black eye. He was given an ice pack by the nurse, a stern-talking to by the vice-principal, and then he was sent back to class.

No one ever got in trouble for fighting. Violence was common enough at schools on this side of town, and if they tried to suspend every kid that got in a fight, there wouldn’t be enough students left to keep the place open.

When he got home that afternoon, he spotted his mother lying on the couch in the darkness of the living room, empty bottles on the floor. She was supposed to be at work, but he wasn’t surprised that she was home instead.

“Harry?” she slurred as the door shut behind him, “That you?”

“Yeah, mom,” he said, dropping his backpack by the entryway. He moved to open the curtains in the living room, but she immediately moaned and clutched her head. He let them fall closed.

“Got a headache. Can’t do the light.”

He padded over to the kitchen instead and pulled a bottle of aspirin from the cupboard. Then, he dampened a dishtowel and hunted down their last clean glass so he could fill it with water. He returned to his mother, draping the towel over her forehead before shaking a couple of pills out of the bottle and pressing them into her hand.

“You’re so good to me, Harry,” she swallowed the pills and opened her eyes just enough to take the glass from him. “I lost my job today.”

“I know, mom.”

“I’m gonna quit this time, I swear.”

He sighed as her head fell back against the couch cushion. “I know, mom.”

Harold was used to this. His mom would get some kind of temp job, and things would be fine for a couple of weeks, sometimes a couple of months. Eventually, though, her drinking would get out of control, affect her job performance, and she would be fired. Each time, she would swear that she was done drinking, and for a few days, she would mean it. For a few days, some clarity would return to her eyes, and she would apologize by buying them McDonald’s hamburgers and playing their old, beat-up game of Monopoly. For a few days, she would help him with his homework, and bring him to the library to rent videos, and buy him a treat when they went grocery shopping. For a few days, he would have a mother. But then the withdrawal would really start to hit her, she would get scared, and she’d cope by starting to drink again. And it would all start over.

Alcoholism was a disease, Harold learned, but it wasn’t one that could be cured with rest and aspirin. No matter how well he tried to take care of her, it wouldn’t make a difference. What she really needed was rehab, but they’d never be able to afford it even if she was willing to go.

So, he found a couple of soup cans in the back of the cupboard and heated them up in the microwave. He helped his mom sit up before handing her the bowl and watched her hand shake as she brought the spoon to her lips. He ate his own dinner, and then he tackled the mountain of dirty dishes afterwards because no one else was around to do it. By the time he finished, his mother had fallen asleep. He pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch and was beginning to drape it over her when she stirred.

“Harry?” she opened her eyes and stared, _really _stared, up at his face. She frowned and raised a hand to brush around the edge of his black eye. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay,” he said, something sharp and painful twisting inside his chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbled sadly, and he wasn’t entirely sure which part she was apologizing for, but her eyes closed once again. He finished tucking the blanket around her and then headed upstairs to do his homework.

* * *

Happy is in the middle of rush hour traffic when he finally gets a call through to the kid.

“Happy?” Peter sounds a bit dazed. Confused. Certainly, the voice coming over the phone is not the cheerful and confident one he usually hears.

“You. Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

“What?” The dreaded thought of someone being responsible for him seems to bring a little bit of energy back to his voice, but Happy can tell he’s still not well. “No, no I’ve got this handled, the threat—” has disappeared_, _if the news clips he’s glimpsed at of a floating lady vanishing in a cloud of violet smoke are accurate. “—the threat is gone.”

“Good, then I’m just in time to pick you up.”

“I really don’t need—”

“I don’t care what you think you need. Your suit went offline for nearly two minutes, and when it came back I got a whole laundry list of warning messages. Head trauma, elevated pulse and temperature, web-shooters compromised—”

“Yeah, I gotta fix them. But I’m _fine,_ Happy, I can just get the train home.”

Happy’s grip on the steering wheel tightens so hard his knuckles turn white. Right now the front page of Youtube is covered with Spider-Man being slammed into a _brick wall_ by some weird magic blast, and he has the nerve to tell Happy he’s _fine_?

“Peter Parker, I swear to god if you don’t stay where you are and let me pick you up, I’ll call someone much scarier and much more super-powered to hunt you down.”

“Fine, _jeez_…”

“Cut the attitude. Stay put. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Peter cuts the call, and Happy huffs out a breath in frustration. Teenagers.

He strong-arms his way through traffic and reaches Peter’s GPS location just shy of his predicted fifteen minutes later. Peter is tucked into an alley, sitting against a wall while still wearing the Spider-Man suit. There’s a shallow gash on his left bicep, and Happy thinks he might see a dark stain of blood on the back of his mask, but he’s alert enough when Happy approaches, so he’ll probably live.

“Tell me what happened.”

Peter leans forward from the wall, head cocking slightly in a way that reads as mildly rebellious, “You haven’t seen it all on the internet by now?”

“I’ve seen a couple of shaky cell phone videos and some concerning headlines on Buzzfeed. FRIDAY says you’re not doing too hot, so start talking.” He bends down to wrap an arm around Peter and help him to his feet. The kid wobbles a bit, which is more than a little concerning, but he starts explaining.

“Okay, so I was just going to pick up some groceries, right? And all of a sudden I hear this witch-lady ranting about how humanity sucks or something. And she’s floating in the air, and she’s about to start shooting spells at people, so I hop into the suit and try to distract her.” They reach the car, and Happy opens the back door and helps Peter in, “and, I mean, it worked.”

Happy makes sure he’s able to manage his seatbelt before shutting the door and slipping into the driver’s seat. “But you were thrown into a wall.”

Safe behind the tinted windows of the car, Peter finally pulls his mask off, only wincing slightly as the fabric pulls against his head. His pupils are blown for a moment as they adjust to the light. “Yeah, she got a few hits in. Cut my arm, bumped my head, probably have a few bruises. But I’m fine, honestly, we should be more worried about where she disappeared to…”

The kid’s lack of self-preservation makes Happy want to scream. It shouldn’t. He knows these people, he _knows _what they’re like, and yet. “She hit you with magic spells? What did they do exactly?”

“What?”

“The spells,” he repeats slowly. “What did they do when they hit you? Your suit went offline, and when it came back your vitals were all over the place.”

“Oh, that. Well, the suit thing was some sort of electricity spell? At least, it kind of felt like I was getting electrocuted. Not that I’ve ever actually been electrocuted before. Except for that one time in second grade where we took a field trip to a farm and Flash tricked me into touching an electric fence, but that was more of a shock…”

“_Kid_. Focus.”

Peter’s eyes snap back to Happy, a bit of clarity coming back to them. “Right. Uh, there was the one that knocked me back into the wall, obviously, it felt kind of like a big gust of wind, or an invisible punch? And there was one that just kind of didn’t do anything. Or at least, it didn’t seem like it did anything, but I was kind of shaking off the electrocution feeling at the time, so…I don’t know...” he yawns, then, and his head starts to leans to rest on the window. From his rearview mirror, Happy can spy a smear of blood staining Peter’s headrest. 

He makes a decision. He changes his route.

“Peter, hey! No falling asleep yet, okay? Keep talking to me.”

With what looks like great effort, Peter manages to sit up straight again. “About what?”

“Whatever you want. How was school?”

“Um, fine. We had to do the Fitnessgram Pacer Test in gym today. You ever have to do that?”

* * *

Happy has met Stephen Strange exactly once, and that had been at Tony’s funeral. They had exchanged the usual script of, “_I’m sorry for your loss—thanks,_” during the small reception that followed. They know each other, technically, but they could hardly be called friends. That doesn’t stop him from getting the man’s address from FRIDAY without a second thought. 

He’s managed to keep Peter awake and talking for the entire car ride. It’s only when they stop that the kid finally realizes something is up.

“This isn’t my apartment?”

“Nope,” Happy says, putting the car in park. “It’s Strange’s.”

Peter’s face has gone pale at the idea of even slightly inconveniencing someone, “Strange?—we shouldn’t bother him, I’m fine.”

“Congratulations on the doctorate,” he snarks, thinly veiled over his worry as he opens the rear door and all but pulls Peter out of it, “Sorry I couldn’t make the ceremony, but how about we let the guy that does medicine _and _magic decide that, okay?”

Knowing he’s lost this argument, Peter begrudgingly trudges behind Happy as he storms up to the Sanctum’s front door and rings the bell, maybe a bit more forceful than he would have normally. 

The sorcerer himself answers a moment later, brow furrowed and frown firmly in place. A dressing gown hastily thrown over his pajamas reminds Happy that it’s well into the evening, but it doesn’t stop him from making his request. 

“I need your help.”

“Surely it can wait until morning,” Strange makes to close the door, but Happy shoves his foot against the frame, stopping it at the last minute.

“It’s Peter,” he gestures behind his shoulder to where the kid stands, looking absolutely mortified at having interrupted the wizard’s bedtime. “He’s been beaten up and had some spells shot at him by a witch-lady. I know we barely know each other, but you like him. You were roommates for five years.”

Strange gives a long, hard look to both of them, then sighs resignedly and opens the door fully, gesturing them through. “It wasn’t five years for us—temporal distortion. And I had to choose between spending my time in a pocket universe with either him or the biggest idiots in outer space—it wasn’t a difficult choice to make. At least when he talks too much, he occasionally has something intelligent to say,” his voice has that gruff fondness beneath it though, the kind that the kid seems to inspire in even the most emotionally constipated of individuals. Then Strange seems to tack on as an afterthought, “Hello, Peter.”

“Hello Mister Doctor Strange, sir. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother,” he guides them to a sitting area, then disappears for a moment into another room before returning with a first aid kit. “So what exactly happened?”

Peter explains again while Strange looks over his injuries and administers a concussion test. He passes the antiseptic and some bandages to Happy and tasks him with handling the cut on the kid’s arm while he gently probes Peter’s head. He sets to work on cleaning that injury, and Happy would never admit out loud how relieved he is that someone qualified to deal with this stuff is in the room. Strange only pauses in his ministrations when Peter mentions the spell that did nothing.

“Nothing?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t think so. But a lot of stuff was going on, so…”

“His vitals were going haywire once the suit came back online, if that means anything,” Happy supplies. Strange looks at him sharply, then turns his gaze back to Peter.

“Spells rarely do nothing. I need you to tell me everything you can about it. What did it look like? Did you notice anything change around you? How fast did it come at you? Any detail you can remember.”

Peter recounts the details to the best of his ability, and when he finishes, Strange nods and casts his own spell. An orange glow appears around Peter’s head, and the kid’s eyes go wide with confusion as weird-looking symbols appear in the air. The wizard looks at it all intently. After a moment, it stops. 

“I believe I know what she was trying to cast. It’s a curse of pestilence, a particularly strong magic that induces the plague in its victims.”

Peter’s eyes instantly go wide with horror. “I have the _plague_?”

Strange rolls his eyes and finishes cleaning the wound on Peter’s head. “No, I said that’s what she was _trying_ to cast. Luckily for you, she was a poor spellcaster. I’d say that, especially with your enhancements, the effects will probably feel more like the flu.”

“So will he be okay?” Happy asks.

“Oh, certainly, so long as he rests and stays hydrated. Since he also has a concussion, I’d recommend supervision for the next twelve or so hours as well, just to make sure he doesn’t get any worse.”

“Wake him up every hour?”

“No, that advice is outdated. He can carry a conversation and his pupils aren’t dilated—there are no signs of a brain bleed—so the best thing he can do is sleep. If for whatever reason his condition does get significantly worse, though I highly doubt it will—” with a snap of his fingers, a small slip of paper appears, and he passes it to Happy. There’s a phone number written on it. “Call me. And feel free to use that number next time you feel compelled to show up on my doorstep as well. I’d appreciate the warning.”

Peter looks absolutely exhausted as they leave the Sanctum Sanctorum, but he’s still aware enough as he’s standing on the threshold to ask, “What about the witch?”

“Don’t worry about her,” in an instant, Strange’s pajamas and robe have changed into his sorcerer wear. His cloak flies into the room and settles itself around his shoulders. “From everything you’ve told me, I think I know how to find her. I’ll make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

Happy can’t help but feel the boy’s rising temperature as he helps him back into the car, and now with the Doctor’s blessing, the kid is asleep almost as soon as they pull onto the road. He has to nudge him awake when they finally reach Peter’s apartment, and the kid looks visibly confused when Happy starts to ascend the stairs beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure that you tell your aunt what happened.”

Peter stops in his tracks. “That’s really not necessary—”

“I think it is,” Happy retorts. “She needs to know what’s going on so she can keep an eye on you. But I know you, and I know that you’d rather die than risk the chance of inconveniencing anyone.”

“I promise I’ll tell her!”

Happy narrows his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t believe you.”

Peter sighs in resignation, his entire body seeming to slump in on itself. “Look, you can’t come up and tell her because she’s not home.”

“Okay then, I’ll call her,” Happy pulls out his phone, only to have it snatched out of his hand almost instantly. It’s more energy than the kid has shown in a hot second.

“No! You can’t, she’s at the bachelorette party of one of her work friends, it’s the first time she’s done anything for herself for _months_, I can’t take that from her, _please._”

Happy narrowed his eyes and gave Peter a long, hard stare. “Fine. But only because I know you’d use it to feed your ridiculous guilt complex.”

Peter lets out a relieved sigh and continues up the stairs, and Happy follows. He looks over his shoulder with confusion. “What—?”

“I won’t call your aunt, but you don’t really think I’d leave you alone like this, do you?”

“Ugh, fine,” but his attitude falls flat when he punctuates the end of his complaining with a sniff that sounds like he’s just inhaled half his own body weight in mucus.

“Gross. C’mon, kid, let’s get inside.”

They make it into the apartment without incident, and Peter quickly retreats into the bathroom to take a shower. While he does, Happy heads to the kitchen and searches the cupboards. He finds a can of chicken broth, then rummages through the drawers for a can opener. In a few short minutes, the broth is heating up on the stove, and Happy takes a moment to sit down on a kitchen chair and breathe for what feels like the first time in hours.

This kid. Who knows where he’d be if left to his own devices.

By the time Peter is done with his shower now dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants, the broth is waiting for him in a bowl on the table with a bottle of Gatorade. He eyes it with suspicion.

“I know I can’t cook much better than your aunt, but it’s just from a can, I swear.”

Peter shuffles closer to the table, “I don’t know, I’m kind of nauseous…”

“Just try to eat. Strange said you need to stay hydrated, and I know your body needs the energy after being out in the suit.” As if to prove his point, Peter’s stomach grumbles audibly at that exact moment. Still, the kid looks a little green around the gills. He sits down anyway and brings the spoon to his mouth, and Happy gives him some time while he goes to wash the dishes he used to cook with. By the time he comes back, Peter’s managed to finish about half the broth but has seemingly given up. He pushes the bowl aside and rests his chin on the table, pressing the cool, condensing Gatorade bottle to his forehead.

“How do you feel?” Happy asks.

“'M'okay.”

“_Peter_…”

He turns his head to the side so his cheek is pressed up against the table and he can look at Happy. He’s the picture of misery. “Still nauseous. Tired. Can’t breathe through my nose, and my head hurts.”

Happy comes forward and rests his palm against Peter’s forehead, but the kid quickly pulls back, nose wrinkling in surprise. Still, it’s enough for Happy to tell his fever has gotten worse. “You should go to bed. Do you have any ibuprofen or anything?”

“Doesn’t work. Metabolism is too fast.”

“But did you try to take any tonight?”

“No,” he mumbles.

Happy leaves him slumped at the table for a moment while he heads to the bathroom and searches the medicine cabinet. He finds the medicine quickly, reads the instructions on the bottle and shakes out two pills.

“Here,” he says, holding them out for Peter as he returns. Peter’s eyes are closed, and he doesn’t open them when he says,

“Said they don’t work.”

“Yeah, well, magic made you sick, you don’t know what will work and what won’t. Taking them is better than not taking them.” He drops the pills on the table with a small clattering noise, and eventually, Peter swallows them with a gulp of Gatorade.

“Now come on, bed.”

Happy hovers beside Peter as he stands, not entirely sure he’ll be able to make it to his room without collapsing or doing something equally as dramatic. He’s proven right when, halfway across the living room, a sudden spark of life comes to Peter’s eyes in the form of panic as his hand darts up to cover his mouth and he lunges for the bathroom.

Peter expels everything he’s just consumed into the toilet, chicken broth, blue Gatorade, pills, and all. Happy’s on autopilot now, filling a paper cup next to the sink with water, dampening a washcloth. He crouches down, hand coming to Peter’s back, ready to support him if necessary as his stomach finishes spasming.

This is familiar. 

Happy feels out of his depth so often these days. He can’t handle magic, or villains, or superpowers. But in this, _in this_, he feels capable.

He hands a trembling Peter the cup of water, allows him to swill the sour taste from his mouth. He gently presses the cool washcloth to his forehead, then his cheeks. 

For a moment, he’s been transported years into the past, and he’s taking care of his boss, who’s come back from a party with borderline alcohol poisoning once again.

“_Glad I have you around, Hap.”_

He almost carries Peter back to his room, pulls the covers over him as he lies down in bed. Yanks the trashcan from under Peter’s desk to sit on the floor near his head, in case of any more incidents. Fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and places it on Peter’s nightstand. 

For a moment, he’s gone even further, tucking his mom into bed as she suffers her way through withdrawal.

_“You’re so good to me, Harry.”_

He thinks Peter’s already asleep as he brushes a hand through the boy’s sweaty curls, but is surprised when Peter stirs. His eyes flutter, half-open and heavy with fever.

“Thanks, Happy,” he mumbles, and then they shut, and he’s out like a light.

He won’t remember saying that come morning. Won’t remember Happy checking his temperature every hour or fixing his blankets when he inevitably kicks them off in the middle of the night. By the time Peter wakes up, he’s completely recovered, but Happy doesn’t leave until May walks through the door. God knows the kid needs someone to look after him, sick or not. Luckily, Happy is up for that responsibility.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> (Come say hi at theagentnerd.tumblr.com)


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